10 days in Africa, or some boy. Take your pick.

5 weeks. I had a 5 weeks adventure, all mapped out in front of me. I bought the ticket, quit/got fired from my job, found a new job for my return, packed up my bag, and was set to roll out. 5 weeks and the ultimate adventure: Africa! World Cup 2010!

 

I’ve always desperately wanted to go to Botswana. Don’t ask me why; its not really explainable. Add that to the promise I made to myself four years ago when I was flying from Frankfurt back to the US after the 2006 World Cup in Germany, a promise that I WOULD go to South Africa for the 2010 World Cup, come hell or high water. Not to mention that its WAY cheaper to fly to Africa from Beirut than anywhere in the US.

 

But five days before my five weeks started, something changed. My dear sweet boyfriend—see the story about the awesome guy with the ponytail—was offered a job in Jeddah. Jeddah is, for those of you who don’t know your Middle East geography too well, in Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia is, for those of you who don’t know your Middle East politics too well, one of three countries that I know of in the world that does not allow tourists. Or, for that matter, unaccompanied females at all. In other words, Thomas was given an amazing offer at an amazing company with an amazing salary and amazing opportunities: all in the one place that I couldn’t even visit him.

 

The stink of it was (or one of the stinks) that we didn’t know WHEN he was going to have to go. The Saudi work permit system is an oddity that meant he could be leaving in two weeks or two months, depending on the pace of all the requirements being fulfilled, the regulations of the particular employment he was being offered, and whether or not the King decided to pick his nose that day or not. (Sorry, I shouldn’t be so anti-Saudi, but I’m mad at it right now).

 

So there I was, heading off on one of the biggest and most anticipated adventures of my life, with a broken and scared heart. DAMNIT, MONEY! DAMNIT SAUDI ARABIA! DAMNIT, LOVE!

 

I touched down in Tanzania and instantly fell in love. You know when sometimes you just click with a place? I have clicked in differing degrees with different places around the world. I clicked in Germany, did everything BUT click in Jordan and Spain, snapped tight and hard in Ireland and Palestine, and ran with my tail between my legs from Cairo and Morocco . Tanzania was somewhere in between Germany and Ireland: it felt exactly right to be there, but it didn’t exactly feel like home. I was happy doing the most mundane things out on the streets: walking to the pharmacy, exploring the North beach in Zanzibar, watching the Ghana/USA football match at the New Africa Hotel. I would have missed Thomas in a comfortable and happy sort of way, if only I didn’t know that every moment in Africa was one moment closer to his departure.

 

It was not quite a week into my entire trip—not more than 48 hours after I had arrived in South Africa amidst all the World Cup frenzy—that I decided I needed to go home early. The thought that popped into my head, one that I couldn’t shake or find fault in for the remainder of my time down there, was that Botswana wasn’t going anywhere; Thomas was.

 

So I called the airline, paid a few extra hundred bucks (ouch), and five highly anticipated weeks turned into three wonderful ones. I got to see one of my dearest friends in Capetown (she is doing a Rotary Scholarship there!), travel up through magical Zimbabwe to Victoria Falls, chat with the zebras and giraffes and elephants, and go home to Beirut a full 10 days early. I’m not naïve about what those ten days meant: they meant Botswana. They meant fulfilling a dream that I have had for more than four years. They probably meant a few more encounters with Hippos, and definitely a long-awaited but illusive sighting of a lion or leapord.

 

But when I think about what those ten days turned into, my heart warms and I can't help but smile. Thomas picked me up from the airport, and we drove straight to our favorite quiet bar on Gammayze street to do what we always do on a Sunday night: play trivia with whoever shows up. The following days, we sat around at cafes like we always do; we went to his house and watched movies or visited with his mom and sister; we ate at the local favorite Lebanese restaurant; we talked about silly things like toes and music and politics; we hung out with my friends and contemplated the situation of him leaving. It was nothing special or groundbreaking. There were no adventures, and certainly no elephants. And I can’t count how many times a day I looked at him and thought to myself, “this is exactly where I am supposed to be.”

 

I know what some self-proclaimed feminists would say at this juncture: YOU CHANGED YOUR PLANS FOR A BOY!??! WHAT?! But this is where my definition of feminism comes into play: I am a believer in full circle feminism—the kind that is touched on in movies like Mona Lisa Smile, the version that reverberates with Arab feminists who choose to don the hijab, the variety that says I can shave my legs and allow men to open doors and still believe in equality for women. That is, my feminism—and indeed my pride and strength and independence—is not threatened one iota by the idea of changing my plans for a boy. After all, I didn’t just change them for him did I? Although that, too, would be nothing criminal.

 

I’m glad I went to Africa. Tanzania was unforgettable but short. South Africa was epic, cold, and educational. Zimbabwe really is magical—in freakishly coincidental and practical ways. But what I’m most glad about…is that I got to be with someone who means the world to me. I could care less if I never go back to Botswana, regardless of what happens in the “future” between me and Thomas.

 

[This post is particularly relevant because about 12 days after I got home, I got a phone call from my former employer telling me that there was an emergency at the field office in Erbil, Kurdistan—Northern Iraq—and they wanted me to come the very next day to help out for about three weeks. Seeing as I was more than broke, homeless, and jobless until my teaching position in Beirut started in 6 weeks, this was ideal but for Thomas’ impending departure. Since Kurdistan is also somewhere that I’ve been wanting to see and the experience would be a gold star on my resume, we decided together that it was not an opportunity I could pass up. You guys really probably have no concept of how broke I was. I left 24 hours later, enduring another tearful goodbye to Thomas—not knowing (and this time, I suspect not) if I would see him again before he leaves for Saudi Arabia. Again, I don’t think I have ever made a smarter decision than when I decided to come home from South Africa 10 days early).